


like wild geese (headed home)

by westmoor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hardly Read At All, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Obligatory fandom cliché fic, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, gratuitous use of wildlife imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26979694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westmoor/pseuds/westmoor
Summary: Deer graze in the grey light of dawn, wild geese gather in familiar formations, and a bard yearns for a home that isn’t his.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 137





	like wild geese (headed home)

There had been a herd of deer near their camp that morning, in the shallow light just before dawn, grazing what green could still be found and pulling leaves and soft bark from the willows.

Jaskier had laid awake and watched them, still wrapped tight in his blankets, listening to the gentle huffs and grunts meant only for their own. Every now and again two calves would break from the group and run, skipping and bucking in play on legs that seemed far too delicate to hold but that he knew, if given the chance, would wander far.

The witcher had left even earlier, heading for the river to rinse out their utensils and fill waterskins, ready for an early start now that winter grew nearer and each hour of light was made to count. Not in such a haste though, that he didn’t take a wider arch around the forest edge to keep the deer from startling.

He was gentle that way, Geralt. He had a kindness to him, one he didn’t seem to think was noticeable, but really was as clear as anything if only one cared to look.

It was one of those moments - a fox, that time - that had turned the tide for Jaskier, changed his direction and solidified it.

He didn’t believe in singular life-altering incidents, not really. Surely his decision to follow a monster hunter into the wilderness for adventure would’ve been one such event, his leap of faith, his now or never - back when he’d seen each goal and dream as something to be strived for, each an end to be reached by whichever means within his grasp. 

In truth even that chance meeting in Posada had been another moment in a procession of moments, from his first strumming a lute to the picking of his name and his first song played in full for an audience. Another block to build with, another step for his ladder upon which to stand until he could climb higher.

But the day he’d watched the infamous Butcher of Blaviken sidestep the road for a fox - a miserable, starving thing drifting around a carcass too heavy to move - a single inconsequential kindness of which the world would be none the wiser, he knew he’d found his tether. He knew he’d found the one thing he would not leave in pursuit of something greater. 

It had also been the day when he learned that not everything could be earned and seized, that some things only held value when given freely and in earnest.

-

It’s just past sunrise when Geralt makes it back, and Jaskier has begun strapping together his scant belongings. Together they break the rest down to its parts and make to leave, silence kept at bay by idle conversation from the bard. The witcher contributes little to the discussion, and says even less, but there’s a tranquillity to his features and calm to his movements suggesting - as Jaskier has long suspected - that he listens if not to the words then at least to their sound.

The road takes the both of them north for now, though they’ll soon see that change. Jaskier has not been one to travel by map, never quite found the furnishings to bridge that gap between theory and practice, but he has traversed the continent enough to recognise the shift in scenery as they approach the Pontar. 

Soon enough he and his witcher will come to a familiar crossroads and he will take the western road, to busier routes and the endless bustle of Novigrad and Oxenfurt, while Geralt will keep northwards and cease to be his witcher (to the extent that he ever was) for however much time it takes for their paths to cross again. 

It is the way of things, he knows. From seasons spent in easy company they must go each to their own, himself to his peers and the White Wolf to his pack. 

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear sky above them, have gathered in their familiar patterns, headed home. He doesn’t blame the world for its contradictions.

He has often pondered what it would be like to pass beyond their regular divergence point and follow - if allowed - all the way to the great stone keep in the mountains, but he knows that particular journey is not for him; That what home and shelter, tales of joy or sorrow, what fellowship and familiarity waits at the end of that particular road are the comforts of the school of wolves, and theirs alone.

It is always Jaskier who departs, when the time comes, always him who takes the first steps down a different road. It’s the least he can do, he figures, after spending the better part of the year trailing the other’s footsteps, to show that he lays no claim to Geralt’s company or expects more than he is given, that he respects the boundaries at hand. He takes some pride in that.

This year is no different, and when the road forks at a familiar junction he unloads the last of the snacks he has pilfered for Roach - the ones he still pretends to hide from her master, although that jig had been up for years - while scratching the spot under her jaw just how he knows she likes.

He unstraps his blankets and provisions carefully, having packed them on top that morning, disentangles what he has from what he wants and lets go.

His smile is genuine - why wouldn’t it be? - and voice earnest as he wishes his witcher safe travels, gives his regards to his kin if appropriate, and expresses hope for a reunion come spring. It’s his standard fare, and they both know it well.

And like the year before and every other year they’ve parted this way, he hoists his pack and his lute strap over each shoulder and walks west, leaving Geralt and his mare to their own devices, free of any ownership a mere bard could pretend to hold over them.

“Jaskier.”

It might’ve been quiet, but it chimes in his head like a bell all the same. It’s an alteration of their usual script and he turns back around, running lists over what he could have forgotten. 

But Geralt looks pained, and for a moment he fears - dreads - that it might be something worse than gloves or a spare ink pot, something far more precious to lose. 

The man who fights beasts and monsters with the steadfastness of a blacksmith over his thousanth horseshoe hesitates, seems to decide and then hesitates again, taking his time and Jaskier lets him have it. For a moment it feels as though he’s standing at another precipice, only this time it seems not to be him looking to jump. 

“Come with me. If you’d like to. You’d be welcome in Kaer Morhen.”


End file.
